I had just finished nursing Joe. His tummy was full and, goodness gracious, he was so content. He gazed up at me, his cheek resting against my breast, his fingers clinging to my index finger.
There is nothing quite like the clinging fingers of a baby, is there? When they are touching you, moving their fingers over yours, figuring out that yes, they are in charge of their own hands. He was quiet and wakeful, staring up at me with his clear blue eyes. It felt like we were one again.
I couldn’t stop staring at him. God, he’s so beautiful. So innocent and sweet.
Oh, my heart is his. My heart is full of love for him.
I never in my life imagined having a son. Isn’t that funny? I always pictured myself with daughters, if I thought about children at all – which wasn’t often. But now, this small boy has wound himself around my entire self. I am the mother to a son.
I feel like I understand Mary so much more now. I understand the veneration of millions towards the Mother of Jesus. She was a mother. And so my heart is full of sorrow for her; surely she loved her son as I love mine.
I never knew how deeply you could love your second. When I was pregnant with him, I would fret to my mother and my husband “How could I love another child the way that I love Anne?” And yet I do. I somehow thought that I only had so much room. But my boundaries have been enlarged.
And I am wild over this boy, filled with joy at his existence, carrying him in my heart and split wide open with love.
He laid against me, our eyes locked together, holding hands. Finally, his eyes grew heavy and started to close. He fell asleep there, in my arms. And I held him all evening.
